Play Sing Act Speak Run
by Lieutenant K. Colwell
Summary: A young boy, Firmus Piett, is orphaned and must contend with adoption into a new family. The Skywalkers' lives, however, are in precarious balance.


The long Axxilan afternoon, lit with burnished golden light and complemented with lonely shadows, was deepening into blue-black twilight. The air, typical of the dry season on the agricultural planet, was fresh-scented and from the west. A few weeks ago it had been from the southeast, bringing the hot, heavy rains that marked the conclusion of the wet season.

Firmus Piett had been inside with large piles of books during Hashoam, the Long Rains, like any good schoolboy; however, Hylev, the Harvest-Time, coaxed even the most dedicated young scholar outdoors with her cool, dry fingers. Out of the wooden homes many children spilled this afternoon, each carving out a small patch of their family's garden-plot for himself. Every Axxilan family, regardless of whether or not they had actually lived there for many generations, like the native _Arshua_ people, owned a garden-plot. For the Arshuans, the broad, strong native humans, their graden-plot was usually their livelihood: all their food sprang forth from the fertile beds, and any leftovers were sold. The garden-plots offered much to a busy-handed child: the soil begged to be dug into with crude toys, and the plot itself was large and flat enough for games of Bounce-Ball. The adults of each quiet village allowed such play to go on only because of their confidence in the hardiness of the chief crop, Arsha root, which could be trampled upon, have its leaves braided, and even be transplanted by little hands and would come out of it all seeming no worse for the wear.

Firmus was released form his book-bound captivity along with his brother Janus and little sister Sara. The older Janus seemed embarrassed by the annual ritual: perhaps he felt, at the ancient age of twelve, that it was no longer seemly for him to go leaping joyfully across the family grounds. Firmus, happily, was constrained by no such feelings at only age eight, and eagerly drew out a model TIE and sent it sailing through the air. Sara watched with wide eyes as it went flying into the waiting branches of a tree.

"You shouldn't have done that," Sara admonished. Janus watched with off-handed amusement as Firmus went up the tree for his most treasured possession.

Janus eyed the model TIE with the sort of hunger one would see in the eyes of a starving child. Many Hashoam nights had Firmus and Janus spent together under the covers of the elder's bed, weaving tales of the galaxy's greatest pilots and adventurers, and many Hylev nights like this one had they flown that very model and narrated its flight. When they were very young, they'd dreamed of becoming cadets together, as brothers. Janus, though, was the oldest, and therefore expected to take over the store that the Piett family ran. Though the Pietts were not true _Arshua_, matters of family expectations are often dictated by the surrounding culture rather than the individual family, and thus, Janus was being prepared for his duty as the eldest son. Which left the other son to fulfill the Pietts' duty to the Empire. Firmus knew this information on a basic level. He could feel Janus's hidden sadness as he watched his little brother preparing, even in so frivolous a way, for the future that he himself was denied. He wondered if little Sara, who watched the world so quietly that the neighbors were convinced she was mute, knew of her brothers' private rift, the rift that had been born the day their father had denied Janus his destiny.

Firmus wriggled down the tree, his hands at last having gripped the model TIE. The smooth plastisteel was warming under his hand, an anchor amid the rough bark that kissed him as he descended. Janus was pretending not to watch as Firmus showed the unharmed toy to Sara.

Sara's small hand went round Firmus's own as she reached for it. "May I make it fly?" she asked. Firmus nodded. He was like his sister in many ways. Words cannot always traverse the distance between two human beings; Firmus and Sara were naturally quiet in homage to this truth.

She let it fly, and it flew, a small spot of white against the heavy green of the forest that surrounded the Piett farm.

Firmus ran towards it and caught it before it could be impaled on a gaunt protruding branch. The TIE's next flight took it over the treetops, a relatively common occurence. He ran mindlessly into the woods and stopped when he heard his brother's voice: "Leave it; get it in the morning. Dusk is coming." Dusk was the time for the Axxilan woodland predator _Chilmaerila _to make its rounds, universally feared and reviled for its huge jaws and curved claws. Firmus recognized the warning in his tone: Janus and Firmus had once been trapped in its clutches. While they both bore the scars, only Janus was cursed with the memory, as only he had been old enough at the time to recollect it now. Even so, Firmus could somehow feel its hot, rank breath on his face as Janus's warning reached his ears.

He looked back helplessly. His future, in the shape of a plastisteel TIE model, was abandoned in the woods. And his brother Janus who would never feel so much as the door handle of a TIE wanted him to leave it there. He glanced up. The sun's light was waning, but still sufficient for a search for a lost toy. "I'll be gone only a moment," Firmus promised. Sara looked at him eagerly, as if wishing him to hurry into the woods. Some nameless fear was written on Janus's face.

Firmus could not bring himself to say any more. He went into the wilds, vowing to be back quickly and alleviate his brother's kind, but baseless concern. The under roots and shrubs held up his speed. He reached a bramble and took out the pocket knife his mother had given him for Yule the previous year. Upon further reflection, Firmus remembered that it had been a present from both of his parents. Somehow his memory had only recorded his mother's involvement with the gift and had not associated with it his stern, puritanical father who, like his son Janus, secretly longed for the stars and was unable to reach them. A pocket knife was a practical gift. It did not provide much in the way of insight into his parents' true plans for him. Though Janus seemed certain Firmus was to be sent to the Imperial Naval Academy, Firmus could scarcely bear to think the name for fear of jinxing his prospects of leaving Axxila. He had a habit of continually trying to search his parents' actions for clues as to their ideas about his future. So far, he had not found anything particularly substantial that favored his entrance into the military. Except for the local custom of contributing one son per family to the military of the Empire that had given them life, the Empire that had provided a market at last for the abundance of food that Axxilans could produce.

Firmus at last pulled his eyes away from the shifting patterns of light that fell upon the gleaming blade. Lost in reverie, he'd forgotten about the bramble that confronted him. He cut it with difficulty, fighting a rising sensation that he was farther from home than was safe. At the same time, he was certain that he was coming closer to his lost TIE. If he closed his eyes he could almost hear the feral shriek of the craft as it flew through space. With any luck, he would be able to experience that sound through vibrations in the pilot's seat.

At last he came upon an odd-looking mass of shadow (for the day was long gone and objects were all reduced to such) that was his model TIE. With a small smile, he gripped the round mid-section of the model and turned around, heading for home. The woods were mysteriously quiet; Firmus had expected to begin to hear the sinister stirrings of the _Chilmaerila_.

Firmus crawled through the underbrush, sweeping branches out from his path before they could catch him in the ribs. He felt the model TIE still in his hand and was suddenly certain he could hear the sound of its real-life counterpart. Firmus bit his lip in uncertainty. Had he not just been searching for his model TIE? Surely his own imagination was the cause of the drone he was starting to hear.

Dusk deepened to night. Wild panic flew through Firmus's veins in a fevered rush. He was fortunate he knew the woods well, knew its landmarks like the old hollow tree that rose before him now. Maimed in a rare lightning storm during Hashoam, the middle part of the tree was destroyed, leaving two jagged strips of bark on either side to reach upward like handless arms. Firmus knew this tree, once strong and tall, now crippled and lifeless, was in fact the guardian of the path to home. He met the tree with a quick grateful touch before breaking into a run at the sight of the dirt path. He heard the shriek of an overhead TIE.

He looked up, and not yet four metres above him, a real TIE flew, close enough to decapitate him if he were standing on the hill he knew lay a little bit ahead of him. The TIE seemed to breathe down on him, peer into his soul, and check for irregularities. Fimus stopped breathing, praying that the _Chilmaerila_ would not devour him whole. It took an age for the mechanical predator to turn. With a final, deafening shiek, which at this distance sounded exactly like a salivating _Chilmaerila_'s roar, the TIE finally lifted from its prey, dissatified.

Firmus could not force breath back into his body. It was a minute or two before he could twitch or blink an eyelid, for fear of making it return. He did not notice it at the time, but he had dropped his model TIE into the dead leaves below him.

He wouldn't remember emerging into the clearing his family's house occupied, either. The graden-plot was not occupied anymore, Firmus could just barely make out in the gloom. Every flower and every poking tip of the _Arsha _root was silent and still. Firmus paused before dashing for the wonderfully safe and solid door that marked the entrance to his home, his haven.

The TIE was above him once more, not shrieking but eerily quiet like the rest of the world-- chaos and tumult suspended for a whole perfect moment. Firmus noticed a leaf growing on a root, symbol of the good harvest that would have soon begun. Insects in the forest becalmed themselves, and they joined Firmus in simply looking at the world. He fancied he could see the whole universe spread before him. All the planets hung within his reach, but a terrible price was demanded of him before he could have them, and he must-- have-- them--

Firmus heard the hum of the TIE fighter's weapons powering up. He heard it from within himself, not simply around him. He heard it like his mother's whispered "Goodnight" before he went to sleep. He could not see in the darkness, he could not pull himself from the spin and tilt of the earth below him.

The TIE fired. One clean shot ignited the house into flames. The flames burst out like fireworks on Emperor's Day, every color imaginable, but mainly blue as the lakes during Hashoam. Firmus was pulled away from the stars-- from the vision that encompassed him-- to see the light, beautiful and terrible as it was. All was color and sound-- but he was blinded and deafened-- he could only feel.

Only feel the collapse of the stars. Only feel the ground beneath him scream for her children.

The darkness engulfed him.

The miracle of the nature was that it never stopped. No matter how great a travesty was committed against her, she rose once more with a fresh dawn for her devoted. Clean yellow light filled the sky, heralding the coming of the Axxilan morning.

A young boy was collapsed amid ruins.

Hardly recognizable, his face was ravaged, flooded by the blood from his wounds. He opened his eyes, and the world spun and righted itself. He was numb in most places, in pain in others. His eyes were brown as the dirt beneath him that had given him a bed for the night. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, trying to dispel the clouds in his mind that prevented him from remembering why he was here, why he was injured, why he felt a gaping wound in his chest when there was no blood in that area.

A child, younger than he by a few years, came upon the remains of the Piett farm that morning. The child was dirty like Firmus, but largely uninjured, with only a cut on his cheek that had been bandaged.

Firmus vaguely saw him, a flickering image in his dulled eyesight.

The child had eyes of blue, that life-giving blue of the Axxilan sky.

The world spun into darkness once more.

Feebly, Firmus stirred when he felt movement around him. He felt the dusk pressing in on him like a slick-furred animal nuzzling him. He felt the fiery pain blossom in his legs, his arms, his face. He could not moan or speak or cry out. He could not feel even fear of the unknown stirrings beside him.

There was a sensation of a giant being jostling him, straightening his oddly sloped arm. There was a brief warm kiss of the stranger's cloak on his cheek. Firmus reached for it, his hands slick with blood. Another hand found his.

"Be still. I am going to take you somewhere safe," a voice promised. The voice was low, expressive, and male. Firmus swallowed something that burned in his throat.

Strong arms lifted him.

For the final time, Firmus awoke. He could not remember any other sudden rush of consciousness after the oblivion, except faintly gleaming images of light and darkness, bound and moving together in chaos. He remembered something warm and strong that had come to help him... or he thought he did. Firmus examined his limbs dully by touch. They were encircled in bandages, but it appeared all limbs were still there. His head felt like it had been knocked repeatedly by the huge, heavy _Gorla_ gourd. Somewhere hovering out of the way of his anxious probing lay the memory of what had happened: dim like the first evening stars.

It took some minutes for Firmus to even begin to open his eyes. The world encompassed the bed he felt he was on, and the soft, molten, hot core of that world called to him. He reviewed the images of light and shadow that had so dazzled him. He remembered something new too: a feral shriek. He winced at that, wondering if he had encountered a _Chilmaerila_. He rubbed the place on his leg where he knew the scars were: long and white gashes against his milk-white skin, visible only because of their raised quality.

Firmus opened his eyes. He felt no immediate nausea, though it settled in after a few seconds. He realized first that he was in the local hospital. He recognized the bustling sounds and chemical stench; he'd been in here after the _Chilmaerila _attack. Some part of his mind shut down at the thought of an event from what felt like another lifetime ago.

He focused on a shape in front of him, a small form in brown. He was looking at a child, a few years younger than him. Firmus noted the boy's blond hair, his thin, serious face, and met his eyes. They were blue, the life-giving blue of the Axxilan sky.

Firmus recognized them.

The boy said, "I'm Luke."


End file.
